I went into the GPs surgery this afternoon to pick up my referral paperwork, only to find that A Mistake had occurred. Apparently my referral was too complicated to let me choose my own gynae after all, and my letter has gone direct to Warwick. I was, admittedly, listening to the conversation through two half-open doors, but it sounded horribly like I have been referred to a Mr Savonarola. This seems ominous: Savonarola was a rather misogynistic-sounding Dominican monk, circa late 1400s. I’m really rather hoping this chap isn’t a direct descendant.

Updated to add:

Ahhhhhhh! Mr Steven Olah!

God, I love the internet.



I had an encounter with a speculum-wielding doctor last Monday, who called loudly across the waiting room to the nurse, enquiring if she had any KY in her room, as he was completely out. Joy.

I went in complaining of ongoing problems post partum: I struggle to hold onto a full-ish bladder; coughing, laughing, sneezing and toddler-wrangling have all caused me minor accidents. My perineum feels all wrong still after the stitching repair job necessitated by a fast-emerging head, and now splits into a tiny tear at the drop of a hat knicker. What is more, whenever I lumber up into a jog at the gym, I get the distinct sensation that everything is…dropping. Dropping out. The word we are searching for here is, in fact, prolapse. The problem seems worse at some times of the month than others. In short, I’ve known for a while I should go and see the GP, but… busy, you know?

The appointment was with a young locum GP, so I was fully prepared to have to explain uterine didelphys, as unless docs have done a lengthy obs&gynae rotation, they’ve generally never come across it. Predictably, he’d never heard of it, although he did grasp the concept quickly without me actually having to draw him pictures. I draw a good didelphys picture. I’ve had practice.

I described the problems I was experiencing, and was half-expecting him to simply refer me straight on to my former gynae chap at Warwick. Instead, he squared his shoulders and thought he’d better have a butchers at my cervi, although I’m really not sure what he was expecting to see. He summoned a chaperone, to whom I chatted whilst he busied himself with gloves and struggled mightily to liberate the speculum from its sterile wrapper. I was beginning to cast alarmed glances at his fumbling, as the last thing you want is a speculum-driver who hasn’t done it for a long time.

He was down there for absolutely ages, and I think he was starting to sweat under the glare of the anglepoise lamp he was directing into my innards, before looking up to enquire if ‘people generally have trouble seeing the second cervix?’ I took pity on him and told him yes, even though they are sat bang next to each other, and are allegedly fairly blatant, as it occurred to me that Harry’s emergence could have changed the lie of the land, so to speak.

He eventually straightened up, having achieved nothing except subjecting my specially-depilated undercarriage to mild angle-poise scorching. He said he would refer me to a gynae. Any gynae. Apparently, our glorious NHS now permits me to pick and choose which one I see.

So that’s nice.

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